


Need Bold Strokes

by Kisatsel



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Hair-pulling, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Ties & Cravats, Under-Desk Blow Jobs, White House
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-30 13:37:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6426058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kisatsel/pseuds/Kisatsel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Enough.” Washington enunciates slowly, as if he’s speaking to a child. His teeth dig into his lower lip, surely on purpose, and Alex’s gaze catches there. “You know why I employ you, son. You think you can put aside the outrage and work on getting me results, or do I need to remind you what restraint feels like?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Need Bold Strokes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [peakgay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peakgay/gifts).



> This is an AU based off the West Wing themed [ham4ham](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A1mYfsNFtGI), source of my greatest joy and agony. If you're looking for accurate details of the US political system you should probably look elsewhere, this is just some exuberantly implausible porn. 
> 
> Massive thanks to peakgay and redpaint for comments and encouragement.

The heavy wooden door to the briefing room closes with an audible thud. The president’s breathing out anger and Alex knows he’s in for it, but he thrills all the same at the noise, as good as hitting period after a sentence that’s swollen to a paragraph in his mind and spat itself out onto the keyboard. 

“What the hell was that?” Washington’s right up in his space straight away. Just the sheer, unblunted _force_ of him, his unswerving focus, glaring down at Alexander like he thinks he can pare away all that’s superfluous to his presidential purposes just by sweeping his eyes over him. 

It’s a rush. 

Alex clenches his teeth. He’s still buzzing with triumphant rage: nothing gets him going like verbal evisceration, and the look on Jefferson’s _face_ when he realized Alex was gonna lay it all out, sour like milk gone bad. Displeased twist of the lips, eyes flickering over to Washington. Good. That fucker. 

“Well?” Washington bites out.

“Yeah, good question sir!” Alex jerks a hand back towards the door Jefferson and Madison just swept out of to indicate that he has no clue what they think they’re playing at. 

“You think humiliating Jefferson’s gonna make him play nice?” Washington says. Alex opens his mouth ‘cause he has a whole list of reasons why Jefferson needs cutting down to size, but the president shakes his head and keeps on going. “You enjoyed that little show, didn’t you, Hamilton?” 

_Little show_. As if politics isn’t two thirds theatre; as if Washington doesn’t wheel him out precisely when he needs some performative intellectual destruction. Alex bares his teeth.

“Did I enjoy reminding Jefferson of some uncomfortable truths about his own personal record? Yeah,” he says. “Let the senator enjoy the taste of his own hypocrisy for a change.”

“Enough.” Washington enunciates slowly, as if he’s speaking to a child. His teeth dig into his lower lip, surely on purpose, and Alex’s gaze catches there. “You know why I employ you, son. You think you can put aside the outrage and work on getting me results, or do I need to remind you what restraint feels like?”

He’s trying to provoke Alex, and though it’s tempting to throw himself up against Washington’s walls for a while longer, burn off some energy that way, _well._ It’s been a long fucking week, and he’s not gonna push his luck too far when his boss is making an offer this generous. Alex lets a slow smile stretch across his face. “I can do a lot, sir, but I can’t move mountains, doesn’t matter if they’re made of stone or of shit.”

The president’s fists are clenched, he notes. Perhaps this will benefit the both of them. Washington sees him noticing, tucks his hands behind his back. 

“When we’re done here you’re gonna head back to your office and start shoveling. But right now you’re going to check that attitude.” Washington takes a small step closer, and flicks his eyes downwards and then back up again. 

Alex recognizes the gesture. He gulps, jerks a nod, and slumps ungracefully down onto his knees. Keeps his head down and his eyes trained on Washington’s shoes: black leather, expensive, barely scuffed. One more word and he would fold right over and rest his forehead on the toe of one shoe. Or Washington could raise his leg, place a foot over the back of Alex’s neck and push with enough force to keep him all the way down on the ground, squeeze the bitterness out of him. Alex breathes harshly and tucks his chin into his chest. 

He feels Washington’s hand grasping hold of his bun. Not pulling, not yet, just holding. Washington digs his fingers in and tugs the elastic from his hair, and then the grip tightens. Alex allows his head to sag downwards so that it stings as his face is tilted upwards inch by inch until he’s staring up at Washington, his president. A monolith. Unyielding.

Christ, he’s needed this. 

Washington reaches out with his other hand to rub a calloused thumb slowly over Alex’s lower lip. His lips are dry from the winter chill. 

Alex entertains, briefly, the vision of Washington’s hand coming down to smack heavy across his cheek, the crack and the flood of warmth that would follow. But no smack is forthcoming. Instead he gets a finger tracing gently down his cheek, setting off a trembling inside of him. He parts his lips and presses his tongue hard against his teeth. 

“More?” Washington says. Alex nods wordlessly, wide-eyed. His cock fills out as Washington regards him, considering. Washington hums. He loosens his grip on Alex’s hair. Two hands under Alex’s chin, broad dark fingers working the knot of his tie neatly undone and sliding it out. Then his neck is bared, and Washington is circling around him and kneeling behind him. Alex keeps his head back, chin up.

“Give me your hands,” Washington says. 

Alex closes his eyes and exhales. He puts his arms behind his back, the feeling of the skin of his own wrists sliding together strange and shivery. The smooth cloth of the tie winds over and around his wrists and then there’s a sharp tug of the knot pulling tight. 

Something in Alex loosens in response; already his torrents of words are fading away, the throbbing in his temple easing. He straightens his shoulders as Washington crosses back round to stand before him. 

“Seems like I still gotta try and teach you patience,” Washington says with a low edge of disappointment. “That right?” 

Alex nods once. 

“Right,” Washington says, businesslike. He takes a step backwards. “What’s your schedule like this afternoon.”

“Meeting at two,” Alex says promptly. “Trying to clear up Duer’s latest mess.” He winces at that and forces himself onwards. “But we expected Jefferson and Madison to last a while longer before storming out, so. I’m at your disposal for the next hour, Mr. President.” He looks upwards and puts on his best businesslike yet fuckable face. The president remains inscrutable.

“I have a call scheduled with Knox.” Washington pulls out his phone and glances at it. “I’d like to get it out of the way as soon as possible.”

“A call,” Alex says through clenched teeth. Washington nods. Okay. Right. A call. “So why--” Alex jerks his neck in a gesture that attempts to take in himself, kneeling and bound in the center of the room, and the president observing him from a foot’s distance.

“You can wait under the desk,” Washington says, as if he hasn’t heard the question, and steps past Alex, towards the door. 

Alex blinks at the desk. It’s not the polished mahogany of the desk in the president’s office but a small, inconsequential thing. Paper strewn, covered in his own notes, reports that he scrawled over with a red pen. 

Craning his neck around, he sees Washington observing him thoughtfully with one hand resting casually on the door handle. “You can’t stay there looking like that, can you?” 

Washington’s disciplined him at work before; it’s a terrible idea but it works as a preventative to more terrible mistakes being committed when they’re pushing their way through the constant whirlwind of crises that arise when you’re running the US government. Not like this though. The waiting is new, and far riskier than a quick spanking in a private office. He burns at Washington’s words but the idea of objecting, calling it off, seems unthinkable. It’s shockingly exposing, kneeling and tied like this, under the president’s eyes in the center of the room where he’s _not supposed to be_ any more. 

“No, sir,” Alex agrees. He turns his head away from Washington to look at the floor and pictures the view as it must be from where his boss is standing, the straight line of Alex’s back, the tie knotted around his wrists, the bare patch of skin on his neck where his hair has slipped to the side. 

So. The desk. Alex gets up on his knees, hot all over, and turns and shuffles all the way over to it. He shoves at the swivel chair with a little more force than is necessary and fits himself underneath. 

He hears the door closing again, this time with a soft click. 

Then he’s alone in the dim, cramped space, staring past the black plastic legs of the chair to a pale patch of wall and the peeling edge of the carpet. A blanket of quiet, hollow and heavy, seems to settle over the room, the audible absence of Washington’s presence. Ticking of a clock from somewhere behind him, the steady sounds of his own breathing, and the beating of his heart. 

He’s partially hidden by the desk. If anyone wandered in, a cleaner or someone in search of Washington and him, they might not notice anything so long as he stayed very still and quiet. Or they might see a pair of shoes and ankles, come round and stick their head underneath, and-- what would he do? _Hide and seek_ , he pictures himself saying jovially. _My youngest is here on a visit._ Scrabble at the tie, jerk his hands out before they notice, no harm done except for the rumor mill going into overdrive and it takes just one asshole passing the story onto a blogger or some sorry excuse for a journalist and there goes any hope of Alex ever becoming president. 

He closes his eyes, digs his fingers into his palms and sees, for a moment, past the mundanities and the million trivial details that must be masterminded to shape the fate of a country. Takes in the breadth of the life he’s made, the weight of his duties, and huffs out a laugh as he considers the absurdity of it. Secretary of the Treasury with on the job bondage perks; three major initiatives to launch by the end of this week and he’s every closeted Republican’s wet dream to boot, tucked away and waiting to service the president. Alexander Hamilton, lightning rod, attack dog, husband and father of four, reliable scapegoat of the right-wing media machine, two places behind Putin on Time’s 2015 most influential list, and George Washington’s obedient plaything. 

He runs through a few scenarios of that nature, considering the ways Washington might reward him if he’s good and shuffling to relieve the tightness in his pants, biting his lip. The minutes drag by. Nobody comes in, and his panicky awareness of every sound gradually relaxes. 

Alex is jolted from his reverie by Washington’s voice, low and detached, and his steady footsteps crossing the room. 

“Let’s wrap this up, if we can--” Brisk, a touch of boredom-- “Hamilton’s waiting for me, and you know how he gets.” Washington seats himself in the chair and spreads his legs, chuckles. Hamilton’s view is taken up suddenly and entirely by those broad thighs, and Washington is still _talking_. He doesn’t bother glancing down to acknowledge that one of his cabinet ministers is still there where he put him, under the desk.

Alex grits his teeth. His cock aches. He has been _restrained_. He has shown _patience_. He wants to choke on the president’s dick, not hear him soberly discuss military spending.

If Washington expects him to be patient, he’s gonna have to remind him of that. Alex starts shuffling forward slowly on his knees. Washington doesn’t react. 

Lack of discouragement should be read as encouragement, Alex decides, and butts his head lightly against Washington’s thigh. A hand comes to rest in his hair, not stroking, just a gentle pressure, and Alex rubs his forehead against the smooth cloth of Washington’s pant leg. 

“I’m gonna need it by Friday. Yeah, this Friday. If at all possible.” Washington makes an encouraging noise, and something jumps in Alex’s chest even though he knows it’s not meant for him. 

He moves forward, closer to Washington, pauses an inch from the very obvious bulge in his pants, and observes it with satisfaction. Washington’s suit jacket is hanging down past his waist so Alex noses the material out of the way, careful, quiet. To anyone glancing inside the room it would appear as if Washington was completely alone, fully engaged in his work. 

It’s a heady feeling, to be this close to Washington and have the smallest fraction of his attention, like sipping at a glass of dark wine. But Alex is focused on his goal. If in doubt, take it one step at a time. He resolves to get Washington’s pants undone. He’s good with his mouth, always has been, and he’s optimistic that he can ease the button out and find his way in; he starts to work at it with his teeth, slow and careful, tugs harder when it won’t go. He lets a tiny whine slip out of his throat and tries again, his lips wet with saliva. 

“Hold up, Knox, one sec.” Washington yanks Alex back, hard. He gets a moment of eye contact, finally, a stern glare. Washington’s squeezing Alex’s roots, proprietary. Alex swallows the moan that wants to burst out of his throat. 

The pressure on his skull relents and he bows his head forward. Washington flicks open the button and pulls out his cock. Alex leans forward hungrily. 

Washington’s still listening attentively to the voice on the phone, even as Alex takes him in his mouth and sinks down as far as he can. No fucking around; he’s waited long enough. Alex swallows around the cock in his mouth, and there’s a tiny hitch in Washington’s breath. Triumph surges through him. 

Then he’s being pulled off again, and Washington’s murmuring something into the phone, placating, “Sure, sure, just run through those last figures for me one more time would you,” and he tightens his grip slowly in Alex’s hair until he’s gasping, screwing his eyes shut to try and prevent himself from making noise and giving away to Knox that he’s kneeling in front of Washington right now, begging silently even as Washington carries out his usual work like nothing out of the ordinary is taking place. It’s agony, and it’s perfect, and he doesn’t know how much longer he can go without feeling the thick weight of Washington in his mouth. 

Then the president mouths one word to him - _stay_ \- and the grip goes soft again, the hand cradling the back of his head pushing him back onto Washington’s dick. So he relaxes and opens up his throat as best he can, flushing, eyes stinging and proud that he can take nearly all of it so readily. And he stays there, because Alex knows how to follow an order, lets himself drool and ignores the thudding in his temple. 

“Thanks, Knox. That’s great. I appreciate it. No, that’ll be all. Yes exactly. Goodbye.” 

There’s a clunk as the president drops his phone on the desk. Then, “Come here, Alexander.” He’s pulled up, gently, and Alex closes his eyes in bliss as Washington murmurs “good boy” and rubs his cock over his lips, smears precome over his cheek. Alex’s tongue darts out to taste. 

“Please, sir.” His voice is hoarse. 

Washington brushes the hair out of Alex’s face. “Go on, Hamilton.”

Sucking Washington off is as good an opportunity as any to demonstrate the qualities he values most in Alex: diligence, focus. Hunger. He pulls off to kiss and nuzzle at Washington’s balls, licks over the vein on his way back up and then takes him in deep, blinking tears away from his eyes. Washington pushes his hips up, pressing deeper into Alex’s throat. He wants hands in his hair again, messing him up, but Washington doesn’t push. He lets Alex set the pace so Alex takes what he wants, wet and messy.

Finally there’s a tug at his hair, warning, and Alex hums around the cock in his mouth and slides up so he feels it flooding over his tongue when Washington comes. 

He takes deep breaths when he pulls off, and Washington cups his chin and runs a finger through the come that spilled out over his lips and pushes it into his mouth. Alex sucks. 

“Alex,” the president says. Kinder than usual. Hauls him up by his shoulders and Alex stands shakily, wincing at the rush of blood to his feet. He’s turned around gently and pushed against the desk. Facing the door. Washington undoes the tie around his wrists and turns him back round. 

When Washington hands him the tie Alex scrunches his eyebrows in confusion, but then his hands are pushed up to his neck and he understands. He winds it around his neck with clumsy, shaking hands, and Washington pushes them out of the way and ties it briskly in a neat knot and somehow it's this, Washington's hands brushing over his shirt, that brings his own desperate arousal to the front of his mind. 

“So,” Washington says, “Jefferson and Madison. Mountain of shit. I’m counting on you.”

“Sir.” There is only so much that Alex can bear. 

“Ah, yes.” Washington watches him, amused. His face is a little ruddier than usual but he looks neat, barely ruffled. 

“I was good,” Alex mutters. “Like you wanted.”

“You can come,” Washington says, standing and planting a hand on Alex’s shoulder. “But not here. Find a bathroom. I don’t want you leaving stains.” 

“Right,” Alex says incredulously. “Wouldn’t wanna be indiscrete.” Washington ignores him, his mask of impassivity already back in place, and brushes one hand over Alex’s waist on the way out.

Really, Alex thinks as he adjusts his pants with a wince. He’s the only sane one around here.

**Author's Note:**

> Edit: it was pointed out to me that Washington doesn't actually take his own tie off so... if you read the version where he literally leaves the room with two ties on you got a lucky preview of the first draft I guess. 
> 
> I'm kiwisatsuma on tumblr let's yell about stuff!


End file.
